Retracing
by P-3a
Summary: Finding the winter a particularly difficult time of year to get through alone, Prince Wrathion undergoes an ill-advised mission to gain some emotional support. [Originally published December 2013.]


Wrathion didn't like retracing his footsteps at the best of times, yet here he found himself.

"My old friend," he smiled, spreading his arms wide in greeting. The goblin rogue eyed him quietly, not saying anything; her dark hair was pulled back into a practical ponytail, her leathers just as nondescript as ever. Still not black, he noted. "It's very good to see you again. I trust the days find you well?"

"Yes. Garrosh's downfall hasn't affected the archaeology business much." She scratched the back of her ear. "What do you want, your Majesty?"

She always was one to cut right down to the matter at hand, so Wrathion wasn't worried by her bluntness. He decided he'd extend her the same courtesy - it seemed this was going to be quick and easy to arrange.

"I need you to get me into Ravenholdt," he said.

He was expecting a barrage of questions. 'But why do you need to go back there, Wrathion?' he mentally imitated, in a mocking version of Anduin Wrynn's voice. 'Aren't you still friends with them, Wrathion? Why can't you just walk in of your own accord, Wrathion?'

Caidan Shortpath didn't ask any of those questions. She just nodded. "When do we leave?"

He'd almost forgotten why he enjoyed working with her so much.

Wrathion had never actually infiltrated Ravenholdt before. He'd been brought here by insiders before, and he'd certainly defended it from infiltration, but he felt a new sort of trepidation as Caidan held him flat against her back in a backpack of some sort that Right had lent her.

It was fascinating to watch her work, though Wrathion could only see through the bloodgem on her forehead. She hadn't lost any of her skills in the two years since they'd first met - in fact, she'd only honed them. She slinked past the Ravenholdt guards with just as much ease as before, throwing distractions where necessary but, for the most part, being small and quiet enough not to need to.

The same improvement couldn't be said of Ravenholdt, unfortunately. With little clear leadership, it had taken a few months for the place to get back on its feet and begin rebuilding. Wrathion hadn't gone back to help. He hadn't been back at all since then, actually. Not in person.

Caidan didn't say anything as she opened the backpack and let Wrathion out, and she didn't make a noise as he left him to it.

As soon as she left, he stood up and stretched, quietly shifting into his humanoid form. Nobody upstairs would notice.

He breathed in quietly, then walked towards the area of the Ravenholdt basement he remembered the most.

He'd wanted to see his old room too, but he was aware that most of it had been destroyed and rebuilt. Anything of his that had been left there was long repurposed or, in the case of one or two particular objects, retrieved for him by his Blacktalons. If there was anything here for him, it was going to be here.

His eggshell was long cleared away, but the heat-lamps remained. So did a crate, long-sealed and apparently untouched by the fires that had roared through the upper levels. He remembered what was inside of it.

With determination, he shifted his hands into strong claws and prised the lid open. It took a few moments, but eventually the well-made crate lid came up, bringing nails with it and exposing the contents. And immediately, Wrathion was hit with a wave of scent: Fahrad...

With no warning, tears spilled down his cheeks. [silly], childish tears. But he supposed that was why he was here in the first place. He was [silly] and childish. He kept his breaths silent despite how uneven they were as he tugged the warm, woolen blanket out and hugged it tightly. It smelt so strongly of him- Gods-

"{I miss you so much,}" he whispered, knowing nobody would hear him - and if they did, they wouldn't be able to understand. The only person who could was almost year gone, now. The reality, the finality of it crashed over him again and again like the ocean, and all he could do was bury his face in the damn blanket and wish it had burned instead of this.

"{I didn't realise,}" he breathed through his sobs, "{until that damn King we always used to joke about pointed it out. I didn't start hurting myself until after you passed...}"

He wanted nothing more than to feel those deceptively thin arms wrap around his shoulders just one last time, to know that he wasn't so crushingly alone as he felt. To have, for one more day, the hope that he might somehow have found a way to save the man who'd raised him. A hope that had been firmly extinguished only two winters ago when he'd seen Fahrad's body thud onto the grass outside with a finality that made him want to hide and cry in the arms of the person whose company he'd been denied in the same.

He buried his face further into the blanket and tried only to keep his cries quiet.

He didn't know how long it took until he felt a small hand rest on the outside of his thigh, and he knew it was time to go.

Caidan didn't look at his face as she talked to him through the bloodgem. You know, she said, your egg wasn't much larger than this crate.

He composed his face before he stood up and replied. Are you implying what I think you are?

Yes.

He sniffed, once, and placed the blanket back into the crate with what he hoped was dignity. Alright.

Caidan produced nails from her belt and, with the stealth only a tomb robber- sorry, archaeologist could manage, resecured the lid of the crate. Wrathion shifted back into his whelp form and crawled back into the backpack, and Caidan secured it on her back again before they began making their escape.

Wrathion decided not to watch on the bloodgem, on the way out. The last thing he wanted to see was the training ring.


End file.
